CHAPTER FIVE // 69 days after the fall.
THE WOUNDED RECOGNIZE THE WOUNDED.

I used to think multiplication tables and grammar booklets was the furthest you'd ever go. It used to make my heart ache so badly I could physically feel it in my chest.

You were in the third grade when the world stopped, and so I assumed that meant you'd stay frozen there... in between spelling words and the product of 8 x 7.

I used to think that meant you'd be in third grade forever.

Of course, as you always have and I'm certain always will, you proved me and everyone else completely wrong. You easily made it past third grade because you're brilliantly ( and sometimes highly annoyingly ) headstrong and remarkably resilient. Honestly, I think you were learning things at a faster pace than I was back when I was your age, before the dead had permanently canceled school. Which is... sort of embarrassing to admit ( given that I should've been a better student than you since I wasn't being taught in the middle of a fucking apocalypse ), but I guess that's just another ode to how incredible you are.

Anyways, do you remember Newton's first law of motion? The law of inertia? You learned it back at the prison. Carl taught it to you. It was one of the things that still stuck out to him from when he was in elementary school.

An object at rest will remain at rest, and an object in motion will remain in motion unless acted on by an unbalanced force.

Yeah... so that pretty much sums up the way Scarlett used to be. Before the fall and during the beginning of it.

Unless prompted, unless told, she would literally do absolutely nothing. And that's not an exaggeration. She wouldn't typically speak unless spoken to or do anything without some idea that someone else wanted her to do it. Which if you think about, is a pretty shit way to live.

Who are we if not the choices we make, the things we say, and the opinions and beliefs we're willing to fight and die for? The answer is nothing. We are nothing without those things. ( Don't ever forget that )

And that's how Scarlett would've stayed. Forever at rest. Motionless. Dormant. Empty.

Luckily, she had her very own unbalanced force.

That unbalanced force was named Maggie Greene.

     Scarlett could smell the rain even from inside her tent. It had come in the night in a short, simple sweep over the farm's stunning land. She laid supine against her back, staring up at the peak of her tent where the poles formed an X, silhouettes of raindrops littering the top outside. A brown blanket was nestled perfectly underneath her, not rumpled an inch. She tended to stay oddly still during her slumber— everything the same as it was the night before with each new morning. It had always been this way.

She knew the sun was rising outside, and could hear birds beginning to euphoniously sing in the daybreak. But she made no attempt to start her day. She kept staring instead.

Until the sound of the zipper being abruptly undone stole her attention.

She mechanically sat up as Maggie popped her head through the tent flap; her short, brown hair already slightly frizzy from the humidity. "Mornin'! Sleep okay?" Scarlett nodded, and then the girl beckoned with her head. "Come on outside. I need your help with something."

Scarlett slipped on the boots she'd been given and maneuvered herself out of the tent. The grass was covered in dew, shafts of light from the rising sun filtering over it, making it sparkle.

She ran a hand through her hair and looked to Maggie. "What do you need help with?"

The brunette only grinned and held up a rusty metal bucket.

     "So I just squeeze and pull?" Scarlett confirmed, perched on a rickety wooden stool beside a large brown and white cow named Cinnamon, curtesy of Beth.

"Yup." Maggie sat directly beside her with a light, kind smile that had yet to leave her face. "Don't overthink it. It's pretty intuitive once you start."

     Carefully, Scarlett began to milk the docile creature. The first few pulls didn't do a whole lot, but after a few more gentle instructions from Maggie, it was leaving in a steady stream right into the bucket. The woman grinned and chuckled over to Maggie at the sound of it spraying against the tin can. The younger girl scooted a few feet away and leaned back against a hay bale, crossing her arms as if her work here was done.

     Perhaps her sister and the new group were too entranced by her fame to notice, but it was quite obvious to Maggie that Scarlett didn't have a single ounce of genuine love for the world in which she'd come from. Her eyes were always glazed over when she spoke of it. There was no spark. No passion. About that or anything else. But fleeting flickers of liveliness flashed across her blank features every once in a while, and Maggie was determined to hoist her soul out from there— however far away it was in her now.

She observed Scarlett, focused on the cow, for a beat before speaking up. "I didn't really need help with Cinnamon. I've been doin' this every day by myself since I was ten." Briefly, Scarlett's eyes moved to the 22 year old, a sliver of passive confusion among them before looking back at Cinnamon. Maggie continued when she realized she wasn't going to say anything. "Scarlett, I've been livin' with you for over two months now and still all I know about you is that you were an actress before all this."

The Hawksley woman was quiet in thought for a moment before she responded honestly, her voice small. "That's really all there is to know."

     Maggie leaned forward, crossing her legs and pushing her western hat further back on her head; not minding the hay sticking to her jeans. "I don't believe that." A beat. "My favorite ice cream is rocky road."

     Scarlett glanced over at her with furrowed brows, and Maggie gestured with her hand for her to speak next. "My favorite ice cream?"

     "Yeah." she smiled with an encouraging nod. "Start with the basics, right?"

     Ice cream was never something Scarlett was allowed to have. Abigail always kept her on these bizarre, regimented diets. The few times she'd had it as a tiny girl was so long ago she could hardly recall its taste on her tongue. But she could dream, and so she answered with, "Chocolate."

"Alright." Maggie nodded in satisfaction. "Now I know you're a chocolate girl. That's important." she repositioned herself in the hay. "Got any childhood memory that stands out?"

     This one was easy for Scarlett. "When I was little, right after I booked my first big role, my Aunt took me to an amusement park for the day. We normally didn't do stuff like that, so it was a treat. Rode whatever rides we wanted until the park closed."

     "I like it." Maggie lifted her chin up in the air, eyes floating to the ceiling of the shed in thought. "Daddy used to take us on tractor rides as little girls. I always liked it for what it was, but Beth..." a chuckle slipped from her lips between her words, "Beth always pretended it was a carriage and that she was a princess. She'd climb up onto this muddy, big ole' tractor in a plastic tiara and pink tutu. My dad and I could hardly keep a straight face at the way she took it so seriously."

     Scarlett was smiling now too, a faint smile, halfway between sad and endeared. Maggie hummed, grinning once she decided on the next question. "Ever been in love?"

     At once, the gentle atmosphere died.

     The tiny smile shattered instantly from Scarlett's face, and her hands fell still where she was milking the cow; staring ahead at nothing, frozen in place. A twinge of horror flickered across the blue of her eyes, as if something terrible had just been unlocked somewhere deep in her memory. The look on her face made it seem that it had been locked up there for good reason. Maggie's smile gradually faded too, and neither of them uttered a word for a long moment.

     The Greene girl, now unsure of how to proceed, was about to backtrack when Scarlett suddenly cleared her throat and refocused her gaze back on the cow. "Yes, once." Quickly, she turned her head to Maggie. "Have you?"

The girl shrugged. "Been in some pretty serious relationships... but no. Not real love yet. I don't think." she smiled cheekily. "Unless young Leo counts."

Scarlett raised her brows, as if this surprised her. "DiCaprio?"

"Mhm."

The woman causally turned back to milking the cow again. "I dated him, once."

Maggie sat straight up, jaw dropping and eyes bulging. "You dated Leonardo DiCaprio?!" Scarlett nodded nonchalantly, and Maggie let out something halfway between a scoff and a laugh— extending her leg and nudging the woman with the heel of her boot. "You can't just spring that on a girl!" When Scarlett didn't elaborate any further, Maggie gestured for more. "Well? What happened?"

"Between Leo and I?" she asked, so blasé about it all. The Greene girl nodded eagerly, and Scarlett shrugged and sighed. "I turned 25." Maggie's head fell back as a laugh escaped her lips, a loud one, catching Scarlett by surprise.

     The woman blinked, almost in shock. She had made Maggie laugh? Without a script? Without Gary? Without Abigail?

     With a lukewarm feeling in her chest ( as opposed to its normal temperature-less deadness ), she added on a statement of truth. "Not actually. It was a short-lived PR stunt. We did a movie together and our publicists thought it would be good for ratings.

     Maggie shook her head, chuckling softly. "See? More to ya than bein' an actress." There was beat before a more sincere look washed over her face. "I don't think you realize it, but you bein' here during all of this has been a godsend for Beth. She's only 16, and even before the fall she never really had many friends. But you? You were there for her even when you weren't. You bein' on the screen was her escape before, and now havin' you in her livin' room..." A grateful sigh passed her lips, a light smile still on her face. "You just don't know what you've done for her."

Maggie Greene baffled Scarlett Hawksley.

She was so alive, so sure of herself, even at 22— an age that was supposed to be defined by naivety and impulsiveness and sometimes even youthful selfishness. Her attentiveness surpassed that of anyone Scarlett had ever met in the shiny, fake, plasticy world of Hollywood.

But regardless of Maggie's unyieldingly self-assured demeanor, Scarlett still just stared at her forward proclamation; brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. No words were at the tip of her tongue, no semblance of a response in her brain.

     Never before had someone said anything that remotely suggested there was more to her than being an actress. Never before had someone called her a godsend and meant it. Compliments only came from insincere red carpet reporters and paparazzi. Maggie's statement contradicted the only thing she knew to be true about herself— that she was only good for being an actress. Only good for being an empty frame for one director to fill up with a fake life before draining her again and passing her onto the next crew.

"You know, you don't always have to keep your distance and keep quiet if you don't want to. It's worth hearin' what you have to say. "Maggie casually added as she rose from her spot in the hay, leaning over and reaching beneath Cinnamon ( who Scarlett had entirely forgotten about in the wake of this bizarre conversation ) and taking the half-full metal pale. She smiled at her a final time before tapping her kindly on the arm. "Just sayin'." Then she left, leaving Scarlett still struck dumb by silence.

Maggie Greene baffled her, but she was perhaps the first person in a long long time to make her consider anything other than what she'd been told. To make her mind stir beyond the life long endeavors of subtle brainwashing it had endured.

She was perhaps the most wonderful person Scarlett had ever met.

Maggie's words had followed Scarlett around the entire morning. More than an actress. Godsend. Don't keep distance. Don't keep quiet. Worth hearing.

She'd been going back and forth and back and forth on whether or not it was a possibility there was even a sliver of truth to that. And in the off chance there was, maybe she should try, just once, to involve herself in something she wasn't requested for.

And so when she saw Lori and Carol clipping laundry to a clothesline, she decided now was as good a time as any to offer some unsolicited help.

It felt odd to be walking over to them without anyone telling her what to do, what to say, and how to do it. Her footsteps were mechanic and her posture perfect as always, but there was a heavy feeling of uncertainty pressing down on her chest.

When she reached them, she halted— blinking as her mouth open and closed like a fish out of water. The two women paused their casual chatter, slowing their movements for a moment. The air was awkward.

But soon, Lori smiled at her and reached back up to the line with a clothespin in hand, and the tension disappeared. "Morning, Scarlett."

Carol only flickered a more dubious, nervous smile as the blonde gave a tight-lipped one in return, along with a nod. "Good morning." she cleared her throat. "Need any help?"

Lori smiled warmly again. "Sure, that'd be great. Thanks."

It wasn't until Scarlett approached the plastic laundry basket that she realized she didn't actually know how to do laundry. Abigail did it when she was young, and by the time she was old enough to start participating in household chores, she was famous and everything was done by a handful of maids that had been hired. Still, she only hesitated for a moment before following Carol and Lori's lead. Within seconds, they fell back into their conversation as they worked.

"I had an idea I wanted to run by you." Carol began.

"What's that?" Lori asked.

"That big kitchen of theirs got me thinking. I wouldn't mind cooking in a real kitchen again. Maybe we all pitch in, and cook dinner for Hershel and his family tonight." Carol glanced over at Scarlett as she shook out one of Dale's Hawaiian shirts. "Do you think that's something you'd all like?"

Scarlett only processed that her opinion was being genuinely called upon, just as Maggie had thought it would, for a moment before answering with a kind smile. "Yes. I think they would love that."

"After everything you've all done for us, seems like the least we could do." Lori quickly agreed.

"Kind of looking for things to keep my mind occupied." Carol admitted glumly, seeming almost embarrassed by it. "You mind extending the invitation? Would just... feel more right coming from you."

"How so?" Lori asked, brown locks swept by the pleasant breeze.

     "You're Rick's wife. Sort of makes you our unofficial First Lady."

There was beat before Scarlett spoke again. "I can arrange it for you, if you'd like."

Carol paused, smiling and raising her brows. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

     Scarlett shook her head. "Not at all. I would be happy to."

     "What's this?"

     Scarlett looked up from where she was setting the table with Maggie at the sound of Hershel's voice.

     "Lori and Carol are cooking dinner for us all tonight." Maggie explained, sliding additional chairs up to the wooden table so everyone would have a place to sit.

     "That's the first I heard of it." he extended his arms to the side.

     Scarlett paused before setting a blue and white China dish over an old placemat, Maggie slowing too— he didn't sound happy about it. The two exchanged a look before Maggie shrugged.

     "Well we didn't think it was that big a deal. They want to thank us for helpin' them."

     The older man raised his finger and his brows, dividing his attention between the two. "We need to be settin' clear boundaries with these people. They're gettin' a little too comfortable."

"It's just dinner."

     "Don't get close to them." he warned. "They're not going to be around forever."

     The resounding boom of a gunshot interrupted their conversation, their heads snapping over to the windows as the water in the matching glasses laid neatly on the table rippled gently. Panicked shouts followed instantly; the voice they belonged to Rick's. Everyone in the house took off for the door.

     Not only was the sound of a gunshot cause for alarm, but everyone knew Hershel's rules about guns and the new group had been rather explicit. It wasn't an area up for negotiation.

Scarlett was rushing behind everyone as fast as she could with the limp she'd yet to shake, the commotion having taken place far out in the grassy field; too far for them to make out what had happened. Lori called out once for her husband, who'd been the one screaming; her voice riddled with anxiety.

"What on earth's going on out here?!" Hershel demanded, everyone shielding the sun with their hands over their eyes; squinting in attempts to see what had happened to the swiftly approaching figures.

Andrea was a rattled mess by the time she made it to the house, eyes wide and frantic and her hands constantly flying to the straw hat on her head. "I-I thought he was a walker! I shot him!"

Lori's eyes bulged. "Shot who?!"

She didn't have time to answer the question before the others appeared, Glenn and T-Dog hurrying alongside Rick and Shane, who were dragging an unconscious Daryl between them. His feet were trailing on the ground behind them, his head lulled to the side on Rick's shoulder.

     Scarlett blinked, her eyes widening momentarily at his startling appearance. He was covered in dirt and blood; the crimson shade staining his mouth and chin, his head, his neck. His clothes were soaking wet and littered with tears and holes. A pronounced, oozing gash was in the side of his head— good aim, Andrea— another poking out from beneath the defiled fabric of his soiled tank top.

     No wonder she had thought he was a walker.

Hershel's jaw tightened, but still, he didn't deny care. "Get him inside."

Just as quickly as they had sprinted out of the house, everyone was flooding back in. Scarlett was the last to enter, pausing at the front porch steps when she spotted a lonely-looking doll laying in the dirt. Carefully, she plucked the worn toy from the ground. It too was soaking wet and stained by red Georgia clay and mud— the same way Daryl had been.

     It must belong to Sophia.

     Her eyes flickered across its stitched smile and green eyes, gently trailing her fingers along its once soft fabric.

     Gingerly, she rapped her knuckles against the closed door of the bedroom.

     "Come in." It was Hershel— he still didn't sound very pleased.

     She turned the rusty knob and entered hesitantly. Daryl, no longer unconscious, was propped on his side on the bed; shirt removed as Hershel wove a needle and thread through the cut over his ribcage. Shane was sitting in the corner with his chin resting in his hand, Rick's chair scooted up close to the bed to converse with Daryl; the two discussing at a map sprawled across the sheets.

     All four pairs of eyes snapped up to the woman, but Daryl's gaze was the one she met. He barely looked tired for someone who'd been injured and out searching all day, and he wasn't even flinching at the stitches being sewed into his skin. He stared right back at her, evidently studying her unexpected presence in the room.

     "Can we help you with somethin'?" Shane raised his brows, a twinge of impatience catching his tone. Her eyes darted over to him.

     When she held up the doll, the attention once on her fell to the object instead; the two former cops blinking and widening their eyes, sitting up a little straighter. She looked back over to Daryl. "I saw it outside and thought you might've dropped it."

     Daryl let out a loud scoff and gestured in annoyance to the doll. "See!" he grunted, gaze shooting over to the two men on his right. "Told ya I found it." He pointed back to the map. "I found it washed up on the creek bed right there. She must've dropped it crossin' there somewhere."

     Rick turned his head over his shoulder to address Shane. "Cuts the grid almost in half."

     "Yeah, you're welcome." Daryl huffed, eyes flickering over to Scarlett once more before she turned to leave.

"How's he lookin'?" the Grimes man inquired.

"I had no idea we'd be going through antibiotics so quickly." Hershel stated, still focused on his work. "Scarlett, give me a hand."

Her fingertips had just come in contact with the cool metal of the door handle when she was beckoned. She paused only for a moment before turning back around, shuffling over to Hershel at the bedside. He handed her a neatly folded pillowcase, just like the one they'd used for Carl.

"Hold that there." he instructed, nodding towards the bullet wound on the side of his patient's head as he finished off the stitches.

     She immediately met Daryl's gaze again, looking down at him as he stared up at her. His watchful eyes studied her in what she couldn't decipher between curiosity or judgement, a subtle intensity among them that made her swallow. Tensely, she leaned down slightly closer to him, eventually reaching her hand out to remove the hair that covered his gash. She brushed the few messy strands away as carefully as she could, but he still stiffened and flinched at her touch; his heedful eyes not straying from her face. With the other hand, she pressed the pillowcase down to stop what little bleeding was left.

His brows were scrunched in thought, sizing her up as if she must have some sort of ulterior motive. In the limited interaction he'd had with the so-called superstar, he'd found her oddly difficult to read, which was normally something he was good at. Even now, with her face right there before him, he couldn't read beyond the unrevealing vacancy of her blue eye boring holes into his.

     Hershel's voice stole their attention. "Any idea what happened to my horse?"

Daryl waited only a second or two longer before pulling his gaze away from her undecided face, moving them to Hershel instead. "Yeah, the one who almost killed me? If it's smart it left the country."

     "We call that one Nelly. As in nervous Nelly." Scarlett's brows furrowed at this. Maggie had once dubbed that horse their best mare. "I could've told you she'd throw you if you'd bothered to ask." He ambled over to Rick, wiping his bloody hands on a small towel. "It's a wonder you people have survived this long."

Rick's jaw tightened in embarrassment and a hint of aggravation, only waiting a moment more before exiting the room; Shane following behind him after passing around a couple of unnecessary glares. The door shut, and Hershel let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple as if they'd caused him a headache.

The corner of Scarlett's lip twitched briefly upward in a sympathetic smile towards the man. "I'm sorry about your horse."

The man's eyes softened a little when he looked her way— not viewing her in the same light he viewed Rick's group. He took a step towards her and placed an appreciative hand on her shoulder. "Let's let him rest."

Her gaze traveled back down to Daryl, who had finally succumbed to the effects of the day he'd had; his eyelids fluttering helplessly closed against his will. She nodded, and carefully peeled back the folded pillow case from his head; his chest rising and falling softly, still caked in dirt. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she set the pillowcase by his limp arm, right near his open palm, in case he awoke and needed it again.

Hershel stepped outside, Scarlett about to do the same when she glanced back over her shoulder to the doll resting on the wooden nightstand. With one more moment of thought, she swiftly retrieved it, and then left the room.

     Dinner was almost ready. Carl and Daryl were resting. Sophia's doll was clean.

     Scarlett had spent the last hour senselessly scrubbing the the little doll, so much so that its colors and fabrics had almost entirely faded. It was far from good as new. But the blood was gone, and all the dirt and muck, and it smelled more like the Greenes' lavender hand soap than a dank creek now.

     She sat in the living room, staring blankly at it in her hands. Its eyes were blanched and fake, but still, they were looking right back at her. In her hands she held a childhood shattered.

     "Scarlett, dinner is..." Carol's voice trailed off as she entered the dimly lit room, her feet falling dormant beneath her. The blonde quickly looked up at her, Carol's eyes equal parts petrified and awe-filled, already swarmed with warm tears. Her bottom lip trembled, and she placed a hand on the door frame for support, the other moving to her stomach. It took her a moment to find any words. "Is that... is that my Sophia's doll?" her voice shook and wavered.

     Scarlett rose from the green loveseat and advanced over to her, extending the object, praying she had made the right call to fix it up and bring it to her. "Daryl found it by the creek. He thinks she dropped it there. I... I thought you might want it back."

     Her hands were shaking uncontrollably when she reached out and plucked it gingerly from Scarlett's grip, a couple of tears racing down her face as she observed it through blurry vision. Slowly, she lifted it to her cheek, letting its fabric brush against her skin; closing her eyes and letting out an enormous breath of solace and emotion as she did.

     Scarlett could only imagine the fit her aunt would've thrown had she gone missing as a child.

She would have screamed and blubbered and carried on and likely fainted, requesting to be fanned by anyone willing. She would've had people holding her hands and kissing her forehead and fawning endlessly over her. She would've been making a tearful, compelling speech on national television within minutes— a Go Fund Me already in the works. She would have harbored all the attention in the world.

     She would have loved it.

"She's lucky to have you." Scarlett whispered, and despite the lack of emotion in her tone, she meant it.

     Carol's weeping grew even louder. "Thank you."

     Suddenly, the woman's arms were flying around Scarlett; the blonde stumbling back in surprise.  It was no normal embrace— it was tight, and long; her chin pressed against her shoulder. Her arms stayed limp at her side, even when Carol reluctantly pulled away. The mourning mother sent her a final grateful nod, clutching the beacon of hope to her chest before turning on her heel and walking away; sniffles echoing down the hall.
    

cam speaks!  

HOW ARE ALL YOU LOVELY PEOPLE?!?

Here's the teeniest tiniest amount of scaryl content for y'all before next chapter (where there's much more)

As much as I adore season 2, I am reallyyyyyy ready to write season 3. I live for the action, and season 2 is a little slow moving on that front. Still, a lot of important character & relationship developing happens here. Also, I know Scarlett is not doing or saying a wholel lot rn, but I promise that's on purpose and that will change LOTS over time : )

Anything specific you wanna see?

Love u all!! Have a great week!

word count 4,740